Lonely Boy
by International08
Summary: I got a love that keeps me waiting. A co-authored story by chezchuckles and International08. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A co-authored story by **chezchuckles** and **International08**.

* * *

><p>I got a love that keeps me waiting -<p>

I'm a lonely boy.

-Lonely Boy, The Black Keys

* * *

><p>"Oh, The Black Keys!" she says suddenly.<p>

He's surprised. She has long since given up on slapping his hand away from the radio, simply trusting him instead to scan until he finds something they'll both enjoy. This, however, wouldn't have been his choice.

"Really? I mean, I like them, but this song is. . .I don't know, a little depressing."

She shrugs, keeping her hands firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel. "Ah, yeah, maybe."

"More than maybe."

She shoots him a look across the center console, and he realizes how that came out, the rebuke in his tone of voice. He teases and pokes and pulls pigtails, yes. But he doesn't really challenge her all that often. And over a stupid song?

He's not sure why he's feeling so combative. He should just shut up.

"What do you mean?"

Ah, well, if she's asking then. "It's about unrequited love, a guy singing about a girl he can't get over, even though he knows he should. Knows that he'd be better off in the long run if he could."

Her silence answers him, and when he turns to look at her, her gaze is pointedly fixed away from him, away from the radio. But her hand rises to flip it off.

He catches her fingers before she has the chance to complete the action.

"It's fine, Beckett," he says, noting with interest the slight jolt at his use of her last name. "We're almost there anyway. And it's got a good beat. I like the music."

But not such a fan of the lyrics. Those hit a little too close to home. Even the ones that shouldn't apply.

_I'm_ _a_ _lonely_ _boy._

Yeah. But he'll wait.

Even if it kills him. Which it just might, seeing as how they deal with murderers and low-lifes every day. Not to mention the sniper's bullet with her name on it, one which he has sworn will never find her.

She still won't look at him.

"Kate," he calls, and then she turns, mouth a little too tight, throat muscles working a little too hard. "You okay?"

She gives him a thin smile. She's not even trying to hide, not really.

"I'm fine, Castle," she answers after a moment. "You okay? You don't usually have such definitive opinions about my musical tastes."

He laughs, or tries to, at any rate. Not that he's particularly successful. But he'll be the one to break the awkward tension.

"Just this one," he says, catches her eye and winks at her. "Now, "Howlin' For You," on the other hand, is a personal favorite."

It's the song she would expect him to pick, he knows that much. And he's rewarded with a slight shake of her head, that almost-smile that he sees more and more often these days.

"That's a good one," she affirms, turning to face him fully as they pull up to his building. She parks, looks at him decisively. "My favorite lately has been "Tighten Up.""

It takes him a moment to remember which one that is, but then it comes back to him - the opening bass rhythm, the tambourine, the whistling, the distinctive guitar riff, the words: _I_ _know_ _just_ _how_ _I_ _feel_ _-_ _telling_ _you_ _to_ _be_ _ready._

"Yeah," he says, voice a bit gruff as he opens his door. "Yeah, I like that one too."

He steps out, glancing back at her, finding her eyes on him as she unbuckles her seatbelt. _Stand_ _up,_ _Castle;_ _look_ _away._ He can't handle this right now, not when he's just reminded himself that he has to wait, that he will wait.

The hardest part of the waiting doesn't come in the lack of affection from her. Nor in the lack of forward motion. There's plenty of both, if he's honest. Little touches here and there. Her hand on his arm to gain his attention, the bump of her shoulder against his in the elevator. The secret smiles she thinks he doesn't see. The open smiles she knows he does.

Hell, she consented to dinner with him tonight after he told her his mother had said that it had been 'far too long since we've seen Kate, darling, far too long.'

No, the hardest part comes in the _not_ _yet_. The fact that the most overwhelming relationship vibe he gets these days is a loud and clear not yet. Never would be easier. Not yet gives him hope, but it's undefined.

And he hates being patient.

"Hey, you with me?"

Her voice, soft and low at his side, cuts through the frustrated thoughts.

He allows one side of his mouth to curl upward and nudges her to walk in front of him into the building, hand briefly at her elbow before it drops away completely.

"Still thinking about the music?" she asks as they wait for the elevator that will take them to his floor.

He nods silently, thumb tapping a rhythm against his thigh.

"Do we need to outlaw The Black Keys on car trips? I mean, I'm all for anything that makes you stop talking, but..."

He glances over at her, catches the sly smile spreading her cheeks. But there's an undercurrent of seriousness in her voice, a hint of concern hiding in those laughing dark eyes.

"Oh no, I'm not going to deprive you of your methods of shutting me up."

She raises an eyebrow, and waits. He doesn't have to say it, but he will anyway. His playful leer has her shaking her head even before he speaks.

"Even if there are other, more effective methods that I'm certain we'd both enjoy."

The detective steps through the open elevator door, turns to watch him follow. And he does. He always does.

But it's hard sometimes.

They stand closer than would probably be considered appropriate, but neither moves away. This is their normal, and he's content here, if not entirely happy.

"You know," she begins as the elevator rises. He can already tell by the way she's studiously not looking at him that this is a conversation he doesn't want to have. "I have a hard time imagining you as a lonely boy. I'd bet you were pretty popular, even as kid. Tall, funny, good-looking, dreamy blue eyes."

He appreciates it; he really does. The way she's trying to cheer him up.

"Dreamy, huh? You saying you think I was a cute kid?"

She gives him that pressed-lip smile, but doesn't look at him, doesn't reply.

"Because you'd be right," he offers. "I was adorable, just less rugged than I am now."

Her chuckle bounces off the metal walls.

"And popular?"

He shrugs, turning to meet her eyes as the doors open, gesturing for her to go out before him.

"You'd be surprised."

* * *

><p>"Stop calling me that," he pouted, glaring over at his mother as the cab wound through the trees. "I'm not a baby."<p>

"Ricky," his mother said, pointedly using the name he despised. Now, anyway. A baby's name.

He'd never go back; they couldn't make him go back. She couldn't make him.

"It's Richard," he said, puffing out his chest and setting his jaw. He was almost ten. Ten was double digits. Ten meant he couldn't be called by some stupid baby name.

His mother tilted her head at him, watching him; he knew she was close to caving, could tell by the purse of her lips, the raised eyebrows. He was good at reading her, had to be, and he knew how to make her understand.

Telling her that Andy Branson had punched his guts and stomped on his leg as he walked away wasn't a good thing to open with. Probably not a good thing to ever admit to her. She'd either break apart, weeping, or she'd be so furious she'd make the cab driver turn around so she could beat up Andy herself.

And wouldn't that be embarrassing?

"Richard," she conceded, her mouth tight. "You've been kicked out of school."

"So." His nostrils flared; he still wanted to hit something, but he'd tried kicking the cab when the headmaster had walked him out to his mother. Not a good plan. His toes felt numb, even still. "I want to go back to the city. With you, Mother."

She sighed and turned her head away from him. Conversation over. He'd messed it up somehow, said the wrong thing. Played it wrong.

He knew better; he shouldn't have gotten into a fight, should have let it go. But they were his, not Andy's, and the fat-fatty took them and wouldn't give them back, and then when he went after them, Andy-

He hadn't been crying. It hadn't been tears. The fat, ugly butthead. He hadn't been crying, just. . .just frustrated. Because he couldn't find a single place that didn't already have somebody there before him. Because they were his stories, his papers, and he needed them-

Andy Branson was a bully and a beast. It wasn't like he'd gone looking for trouble. Richard didn't want to have anything to do with him, but he'd been pushing his fat face in where he wasn't wanted, and stealing things, and taking his stories, and reading them out loud to everybody, and everybody was laughing at him-

_Ricky_.

It grated. He'd been Ricky his whole life, but not anymore. No longer. Not after that.

It was just a superhero story. That was all. Spo, yeah, the evil villain was a lot like Andy Branson. And maybe Ricky - _Richard_ - hadn't been so smart, snorting at Andy as he read about the villain getting his fat face punched by the hero.

Andy's voice had trailed off and his face had gotten red, and blistered looking, and he'd read about the villain's guts being ripped out of his stomach and sprayed all over the Empire State building and then-

And then Ricky had gotten *his* guts punched and his leg stomped on as he laid in the grass, wind knocked out of him, watching Andy rip up his stories into little, tiny, snowflake pieces.

And he'd lost it.

He'd surged to his feet and socked Andy in the face.

It hadn't done a thing. He'd gotten his butt kicked, bad, and for nothing, really. Andy had come out of it sweaty and smirking and cruel, but without a mark. Ricky had bruises on his hands that still stung.

_Richard._

It was his fifth fight. Along with seven demerits for being disrespectful in class. Added to the three demerits for being out of bed after lights out, and that was 15 demerits - expulsion. (Not to mention the demerits he should've gotten, but which he sweet-talked his way out of - shirt untucked, no belt, sleeping in the library, reading comic books during math, forgetting to write the Rules of Civility as punishment for reading comic books. . .on and on.)

But he hated them all. And she'd never make him go back.

School sucked.

Fat bullies with a wicked uppercut sucked more.

His mother sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

Ricky - no, Richard, it was Richard now - set his jaw and looked out his window, his eyes stinging, his hands throbbing, his whole body a bruise.

What did it matter?

What did _any_ of it matter.

* * *

><p>"I was nine the first time I was kicked out of boarding school."<p>

His voice is quiet but echoes in the still-empty loft. He thought his family would be home already, but they did close the case early, and his mother and daughter are both out. There's no bubbly diva or cheerful daughter to distract him from old wounds.

The detective says nothing, but she does turn back to look at him as she steps into the living room, sunset and early streetlights streaming through the windows and catching the wave of her hair, setting it on fire.

"I got into a fight," he says. "Well, more like I was on the receiving end of a beatdown. He was considerably bigger than I was."

"What started it?" she asks, and he can hear the gentle curiosity in the question. It's not an interrogation, she isn't adding facts and theories to any murder board, not looking for motive. Just wants to know him.

"He was a bully. And I was the new kid who liked to spend his free time writing stories or reading comic books rather than playing pranks. That made me a target."

He can separate himself from it now. He's Richard Castle now, or Rick, or his preferred _Castle_ - not little Ricky Rodgers. But the sense of injustice remains. Someone who's bigger or stronger preying on the little guy - it gets to him. It's part of why he writes. Because good will win, and evil will be punished. Always rooting for the underdog, because that will always be a part of him.

And besides, Andrew Branson went to prison a year ago for embezzling from his law firm. It was in all the papers. The injured nine year old in him gleefully read every account, even as the mature man chided himself for not being able to fully forgive and forget.

"I'm sorry," she starts to say, turning to look at him as he drops to the couch next to her, but he shakes his head.

"It was a long time ago, and unfortunately, just the first of many times I got kicked out of school. You wanna know why I have friends everywhere? I've been around."

He tries to grin, even wiggles his eyebrows at her, but the pity remains in her eyes. And he doesn't want that.

"Still," she murmurs. "You should have been safe at school. Somebody should have been keeping an eye out for you."

He shrugs, knows his answer won't please her, but needs her to understand anyway.

"Most of the time I looked out for myself."


	2. Chapter 2

A co-authored story by **chezchuckles** and **International08**.

* * *

><p><em>There<em>.

A narrow space in between the wall and some kind of statue. He could just squeeze himself behind it. Mark wouldn't find him here. And even if he did, the other boy and his friends were too big to fit back there.

He pushed as much air as possible out of his lungs, making his body as thin as he could, and slid into the gap between the wall and whatever the thing was that stood in front of it. A sarcophagus, maybe.

Oh. It was hollow, at least partially. On tiptoes he could swivel his head into a small space, look out through a grate in the mouth of the figure.

Could they see him? Didn't seem like it. Abernathy was now standing right in front of the thing, but there was only curiosity on his face, not the usual malice it held when he glared at Richard.

Not that Richard didn't deserve it. He *had* humiliated the other boy in front of the prettiest girl in their class. Still, the kid was a jerk who liked to throw around his daddy's money and poke fun at Richard for having neither.

Something tickled at his nose and then his throat, and he felt the muscles beginning to twitch. He must have stirred up some dust when he slid back here.

Mummy dust. Gross. And cool.

Still. Inconvenient at the moment.

He tried, he really did, but he just couldn't hold it in. Would have put his hands over his mouth, but there wasn't enough room. It was just too tight it his little spot.

So he sneezed.

And Mark Abernathy jumped nearly a foot in the air.

Oh. _Ohhh_.

Awesome. That was a deep, booming sound. And suddenly Abernathy was staring right at him, still with absolutely no recognition in his eyes.

"Hey!" Richard called out, a man's low bass echoing through the room. His voice was changing yes, but there were none of those embarrassing squeaks this time. Whatever he'd found here distorted his voice until it was unrecognizable.

"Is that your face, or did Picasso come back from the dead?"

Mark Abernathy flushed pink at the insult as his half-wit lackeys stepped up to flank him.

"When you go to a mind reader, do you get half price?"

Richard grinned to himself, unseen. He liked that one. Abernathy reddened further and the other two boys tilted their heads in puzzlement.

"I heard some monkeys escaped from the zoo, but I didn't believe it until I saw you."

Abernathy looked ready to throttle someone, but just then, an oddly-dressed old man stepped up behind the three boys. He set a hand on Mark's shoulder, but the young man shrugged it off, whirling around with fists up.

"Wonderful invention, isn't it?" the old man commented. Richard felt a knot of dread form in his stomach. Would the old man give him up?

"It is designed to hurl insults at anyone who stands in front of it," the man continued. "Quite ingenious, really."

Huh. Well then.

Abernathy's face slowly regained its usual color, but shook his head when the man asked if he and his 'little friends' were interested in anything in particular within the shop.

Richard watched carefully as the old man led them away, and he stayed in his hidden alcove, catching his breath.

A cough a few feet away drew his attention.

The old man stood, one foot tapping, in the space just beyond Richard's hiding spot.

Uh-oh. He really didn't need to get in trouble again. Not when he was already skating on very thin ice with his mother and her boyfriend of the moment.

But as he squeezed himself out and stood in front of the man, the stern expression melted away, a delighted grin replacing it.

"What's your name?"

The young man shifted from one foot to the other.

"Richard," he finally admitted. "Richard Rodgers."

The man held out a gnarled hand.

"Frederick Drake," he said regally. "Proprietor of this fine establishment."

Richard shook Mr. Drake's hand. His mother, even if she didn't always pay attention to him, had at least taught him good manners. Besides, the old man with the tufts of white floss hair looked like he had a story. And Richard was always interested in a good story.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drake."

The man's smile grew, and he inclined his head in a little bow.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you, Mr. Rodgers."

He wasn't used to adults treating him this way. To Mother, he'd always be a little boy. To the stagehands, actors, and other theatre personnel, he was at best, a talkative kid. At worst, he was a nuisance. The boyfriends? He didn't even consider them.

"You have quite a way with words, Mr. Rodgers," Drake said. "And while I generally oppose the derision of others - I find kindness to be a much better tool - it did seem as though they might deserve it. Three against one - well, that's rather cowardly."

Richard found himself drawn in. Mr. Drake cocked his head slightly to one side, giving the young man the uncanny feeling that he was being turned inside out and thoroughly examined. Finally the man spoke again.

"Maybe we can find a few things that will help them understand that trifling with the likes of you would be…unwise."

Richards's ears perked up.

"What kind of things?"

Mr. Drake laughed, the sound a little dark, a lot mysterious, sending a shiver of anticipation and wonder up his spine.

"Oh, Mr. Rodgers," he said in a low, secretive voice. "This is a magic shop. The possibilities are endless."

* * *

><p>"When do you expect them?" Kate asks, brushing the hair back from her eyes as she opens a package of ground turkey.<p>

Castle shrugs. "Honestly, I didn't expect either of them to be gone this long." He slices the cabbage quickly, shredding it really, and she can't help but watch for a moment, as if entranced.

"What do I do now?" she asks finally.

"I just need to brown it first. Pot's on the stove already." He gestures with a nod, his hands full of vegetables, scraping cabbage into a bowl.

Kate dumps the meat into the pot, comes back to the sink to wash her hands. Castle flips on the water for her, squirts soap into her palm, all without asking. Probably without thinking too. As Kate washes her hands, she wonders if his automatic help is an old habit, if he let his daughter help him cook and went through this same little routine for her as well.

She pushes the faucet off, her hands dripping in the sink, turns her head to look at him, the solemn face and focused eyes. It's not even a conscious thought, not even a decision, but she slides closer, bumps her hip into his, and when he glances her way, she flicks water at him with her fingers.

He laughs, a little surprised gasp, even as he flinches. She laughs back, feels the too-wide smile on her face.

"Didn't know I would need to set ground rules for helping me in the kitchen," he grumbles, but it's all over; his eyes are too delighted, his mouth too grinning.

"I should warn you. I've never been one to follow the rules," she smirks, moving back to the stove to turn up the heat. Even as she does, she feels his eyes on her, realizes how close to the line she's brought him; she searches for a safer topic, a way to bring them back.

"Here," he says, and she takes the plastic spoon from him, mashes it into the ground turkey, willing it to cook faster.

"So. What's your mom been up to lately? How's her school going?" she asks, knows that it's too bright, too shiny, but can't help it.

He's silent for so long that she risks a glance at him, sees his fingers perfectly still on the cutting board, his face absorbed. And not by her, she thinks, which is different. Not bad, no, just. . .

"Castle?" Is it his mom?

"No. Yeah. She's good," he says, rousing at her call, turning slightly unfocused eyes back to her. "I think she's at a play that one of her students is in, something like that. Or maybe they're just rehearsing for it."

"So she might not be coming for dinner?" Kate prods.

"Oh. That's. . .true." He gives her a weak smile, shrugs, then reaches for a drawer and pulls out a can opener. He attacks the tomato paste with it, prying off the metal top, starts adding the paste to the mixture in the bowl.

Okay, so Martha might be out.

"Where did you learn how to cook?" she asks suddenly, watching him with his concoction.

He lifts her a crooked smile. "Why? Making you nervous?"

"Little bit," she admits, giving the smile back.

"Taught myself."

"Thus your more. . .interesting. . .recipes," she murmurs, abandoning the meat to move closer to him.

"I'm serious, Beckett, chocolate syrup goes on everything," he says, dredging up an old, way old, conversation.

She shakes her head, can't help the way her hip brushes his. "So it's not Martha's fault if your cooking is rather unconventional?"

He doesn't laugh this time, just shrugs the shoulder she finds herself leaning against. "She was rather uncoventional in the kitchen as well. As in, she was never in the kitchen." He does laugh at that, but it doesn't sound right to her, doesn't sound like the man who jokes about his mother's predilections with fondness.

"So. Self-taught man," she murmurs and feels herself, as if from a distance, draw her fingers down his forearm and circle his wrist, light, not restraining, barely there.

His hand flips under hers and his fingers squeeze.

* * *

><p>Richard laid the book flat on his chest and listened intently.<p>

No. Right kind of sounds, but not the right person. Not his mother.

He went back to his reading, Captain Nemo claiming the South Pole, bidding the sun to set over Antarctica, but he kept an ear out for the key in the door.

It was one in the morning when he rolled over for a better position, propping the book up against the wall, an arm over the bottom of the page to keep it there. He raised his head and glanced to the window, but it was never truly dark in this section of the city.

The neon sign went through its regular motions, illuminating the bar's name in a shining orange and yellow progression, then culminating with the final green olive in the martini glass.

He got out of bed and shuffled to the window, glanced down. The bar was busy, but of course, he never recognized anyone. A man in a suit leaning over the grate in the sidewalk, steam from the subway wafting up; it couldn't smell good, but the man didn't move away. Two women lighting up cigarettes before they went inside, the one on the right holding the door open.

He wouldn't see his mother down there either. She didn't drink in bars; he'd never had to worry. Her friends brought her home, most of the time, a great loud group of them stumbling down the sidewalk together, singing current Broadway showtunes. They'd take over the small apartment, fill it with fun, and noise, and stories; Richard had long since stopped doing his homework at home.

Just too much going on here. Too many things, interesting people, life experience. He made notes, stupid as it was, kept having to run back to his room to scribble down things like: _four_ _runs_ _in_ _Chicago_ _but_ _it_ _was_ _the_ _last_ _one_ _that_ _did_ _him_ _in_, or _baby_ _boy,_ _you_ _ain't_ _seen_ _nothing_ _like_ _it_, or _you_ _know_ _what_ _they_ _call_ _this?_ _sex_ _on_ _the_ _beach_.

He made sure he woke long before the boyfriend - whoever he was, and got himself out of the apartment before the awkward breakfast.

Mother wasn't home yet, but it was the Friday show of their last run and they always stayed to strike the set before the cast party. He couldn't imagine his mother returning any time before four.

Richard went back to his library book, settled in for the adventures of Captain Nemo, the man enamored of the sea.

He found it right, and fitting, that Nemo meant _no_ _one_ in Latin.

(...)

She was shaking when she came into the kitchen. Richard glanced stupidly at the wall clock.

"Mother. It's seven in the morning."

"On a Saturday no less," she groaned, waving it away. The familiar gesture made him grin; he cracked eggs into a bowl, threw away the shells. He'd watched Trent Murphy's mother do this last Saturday when he'd spent the night working on a project. Omelette, she'd said. You could add any ingredient you wanted.

"I need a drink," Mother moaned, sinking to the small kitchen table and putting her head in her hands. "Richard. You know where everything is."

"No!" he gasped, mock denial. "I have no idea where you hide your alcohol, Mother. I never touch the stuff." He'd taken one of her bottles of vodka to Trent Murphy's house, 'doing a project,' then watched Murphy's smoking hot mom make them brunch the next morning.

His Mother snorted. "Don't be clever. It doesn't suit you, darling."

He laughed and poured milk into the eggs, added salt, pieces of deli ham, celery he'd chopped up, then put the whole thing into a pan, wishing he had something good and creative to add in there, like marshmallows. Or gummy bears. At what temperature would gummy bears melt?

"I wasn't kidding," his mother muttered from the table, her head pillowed in her arms.

Richard glanced up at her with a laugh, but she really wasn't kidding. He abandoned the eggs, stepped through the short, galley kitchen to touch her shoulder. "What do you need, Mother?"

"Bloody Mary. It's-"

"I know how to make it," he said.

She did lift her head at that, shot him a baleful look, but he just shrugged. Couldn't live around her and not know how to make a Bloody Mary.

"Go back to bed. I'll get it."

"Oh, Richard, darling, you're a lifesaver," she moaned and patted his cheek. He took her by the elbow and pulled her up from the table, but she shook him off.

"I can make it to bed under my own steam." She rubbed at her head and exited the dining nook, heading back for her room. "Barely. Be a good boy and stay quiet today."

When she had disappeared back into her bedroom, he stood by the table for a moment, staring at the space where she'd been.

And then he made her a Bloody Mary and himself an omelette.

Next time. Gummy bears.


	3. Chapter 3

A co-authored story by **chezchuckles** and **International08**.

* * *

><p>"Yeah, sweetie, that's fine."<p>

His voice has taken on that tender tone she's only ever heard when he speaks to his daughter.

"No, of course not, pumpkin. Don't worry about it."

He leans with one hip against the counter, not quite facing her, but not quite turning his back either. It's the perfect position for her to keep an eye on him. He's smiling as he speaks into the phone, but she glimpses a hint of disappointment in those blue eyes.

"Hey, that just means more for us."

His fingers tap idly against the granite, and then his gaze flicks over toward her. She turns her attention quickly back to the meat and vegetables stir-frying in the wok.

"No, Grams is at that play. I kidnapped Detective Beckett."

She looks up from her task to find him grinning at her.

"You doubt my ability to develop and execute a successful plan?"

She rolls her eyes, and he laughs, but not at her.

"Yes, that's true. I'm sure she *could* take me."

He winks, and she whispers a few words at him, not so loudly that Alexis could hear over the phone, but with enough volume that her partner will catch them. Her teasing challenge: "Anytime. Any place."

Castle smirks, ear still pressed to the screen of his smart phone as he mouths back _I'm_ _all_ _yours_. Yeah, probably she should have expected that. He's rarely one to resist the opportunity for innuendo, though he has shown a somewhat surprising restraint lately. Still. That was a perfect setup, and he didn't let her down.

"Okay, dear daughter of mine, go have fun with your friends. I'll see you later."

He listens for a moment more, and then his whole face breaks into light, genuine happiness painting his features.

"Love you too."

It's not directed at her. It's directed at his daughter. But. She can't control the somersault of her recently mended heart, can't halt the freefall of her stomach.

* * *

><p>"Brooks!" he called out.<p>

He caught the slight flinch, the way the younger boy hunched his body for a brief moment before pausing in the middle of the crowded corridor, turning around to see who'd called his name.

Their eyes met, and Richard jerked his head toward the wall, silent instruction to wait for him there, to quit blocking the path of students hurrying to their lunch. He knew, from personal experience, that getting in between teenage boys and food earned one exactly zero friends.

There was a series of _excuse_ _mes_ and _sorry_ _about_ _thats_ as he made his way through the throng, but when he finally reached the wall, Richard thrust out a hand in greeting.

"Richard Rodgers," he offered, using his free hand to finger comb his floppy hair away from his forehead.

The other boy looked at him suspiciously for a moment, but finally accepted the greeting. His grip was firm, and Richard wondered whether he'd received the same lecture about how a man's handshake reflected his character.

"I've seen you around," the younger boy answered. "I'm Jason Brooks."

And then he offered nothing else, eyes darting from side to side, down to their clasped hands until Richard let go.

"Yeah, I know who you are," he said. "Hey listen, I run the short story section of the lit mag. The _Ethos_?"

Brooks nodded slowly, a flash of recognition passing through his guarded eyes. But he didn't speak. Just waited it out.

"The piece you submitted," Richard said and he noted with interest the way the boy tensed, as if spoiling for a fight. "It was really good."

Shock presented itself briefly in the younger boy's features, and then he cleared his throat.

"It wasn't exactly a short story," Brooks said slowly. "Just kinda. . .something I needed to get out."

Richard nodded. "I know, but somehow it ended up on my desk anyway, and I figured I'd see if I could get to you before Westlake tried to pull you in to another section."

"Another section?" the boy echoed.

The young man laughed. "Essays, for example."

"Oh no way," Brooks said, shaking his head vehemently. "I have to write enough essays for Collins."

Richard grinned, slapped the other boy on the back.

"Been late to history a few times, have you?" he said teasingly, and got the first real smile from the boy. "I had to write more than one of those myself."

Brooks seemed to relax, finally. Establishing a rapport, putting others at ease - Richard was good at that, he'd discovered. Reading people too. Something about being a writer, always looking for the story perhaps, made his powers of observation keener, and he'd seen his younger self in this kid.

"Anyway," he continued. "I'd like you to come up to our office this afternoon, if you can. Third floor, fifth room on the left past the stairs."

Brooks nodded, hesitated, and then spoke.

"I don't know if my father will let me," he said. "Join the _Ethos_, I mean. He kind of has his heart set on me following in his footsteps. He wants me to play hockey."

Richard shrugged.

"So play hockey," he conceded. "Make your father happy. Writing for the _Ethos_ isn't all or nothing. I just think you have some real talent and I'd hate to see it go to waste."

The younger boy brightened. "You think I have talent?"

Richard nodded. "I really do. That part about acceptable risk, speculation - how people approach their relationships like the market, just looking for who will help them the most in the long run - it was really well-written."

Brooks shrugged, tilting his head. He was young, thin, his eyes both weary and wary. Richard knew he'd worn the same expression for the first few months he'd been at Edgewyck. But he was different now. More confident. Taller. He'd filled out. And even if he didn't play sports, wasn't necessarily popular, his build was enough to ward off bullies. He suspected Brooks had yet to reach the same advantage. Oh, what a difference a year could make.

"My father's a stock broker," the younger boy explained softly, dropping his eyes to the floor. "Investments and returns - that's all he understands."

Richard scuffed the toe of his oxfords against the floor, drawing the other boy's attention once more. When Brooks looked up, Richard gave him an almost-smirk.

"My mother's an actress," he said with a shrug and a wink. "She firmly believes that all the world's a stage. You would not believe how many times I've been roped into running lines with her. She even made me wear a dress once."

Brooks laughed at that, his expression lightening, and Richard felt a certain sense of satisfaction. Words had power, and not just on the printed page.

"Anyway," he said, pushing himself into the now-empty corridor. "Come up to the office later, and we'll talk, see how we can get you involved."

The boy nodded, and Richard was halfway down the hall when he heard his name.

"Hey Rodgers?"

The young man turned back. "Yeah?"

"What did. . .I mean, when you decided you wanted to write - how did your father react?"

Richard looked at him, lifted one hand dismissively, much the way his mother often did, as if a simple wave could dispel the questions.

"Never had a father," he said with a shrug. "Guess I lucked out."

* * *

><p>"Rice is done."<p>

She startles at the nearness of his voice, and the spoon clatters against the round metal of the pan. One broad hand lands on her bicep - to steady her, no doubt.

"Jeez, Castle," she grumbles, glancing back over her shoulder to find him altogether too close for comfort. "You should know better than to sneak up on a cop."

He squeezes her arm lightly and drops his hand to his side, stepping back to a more acceptable distance. It's a sign of how far she's come that he didn't get an elbow in the gut when he surprised her. Or maybe just a sign that despite her natural instincts, her body knows she's safe here and there's no need to fight.

"My sincerest apologies," he says repentantly, but she doesn't believe for a second that he actually means it.

"Oh, you're just proud of yourself for getting the drop on me."

He chuckles and leans forward, his chest pressing lightly against her shoulder blade as he reaches around her to snag the wooden handle of the spoon, swirling the contents of the pan and then drawing out enough for a mouthful. He brings it to his lips.

She watches.

His eyes slide shut as he tastes it, throat muscles working as he swallows, and then his pink tongue emerges to lick away a renegade dab of sauce that remains at the corner of his mouth. Which is good. Because if his tongue hadn't removed it, hers might have felt compelled to clean up the mess for him. And that would have been. . .

That is to say. . . Oh, who's she kidding anymore? Certainly not herself. She knows she wants to kiss him. Just doesn't know how to bridge the gap after all this time.

"Want a taste?" he asks, voice low and intimate - more intimate than it should be for what he's offering. "It's good."

Her eyes are still intent on his lips as he speaks and it's not until he nudges her foot with his that she realizes he's holding out the spoon to her.

Her mouth opens instinctively, and he slides the utensil between her teeth. She closes her eyes, savors the taste and the knowledge. When she opens them again he's watching her closely with dark eyes, jaw clenched, the hand that holds the spoon trembling slightly.

"You're right," she says quietly. "It is good."

He gives her a tight smile.

"I'll have to write down the recipe for you."

She bumps her shoulder against his chest, barely resisting the urge to just lean back. He'd catch her, maybe wrap his arms around her from behind. She's certain of it. "Just don't leave out any of those secret spices you wouldn't let me see."

His eyes twinkle at the teasing, the tension in his face melting away. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He sets the spoon carefully back in the wok, his earlier worry for germs apparently disregarded now. Of course, that was raw meat - Salmonella, E. Coli. Any germs currently on the spoon are his. And hers. Together. She finds the thought oddly pleasing. Her germs are keeping his company.

His warmth disappears from her back, and she turns to see him already dishing rice onto a pair of plates. He sidles up next to her when he's finished and lets her add her contribution to their meal.

"Ready to eat?" he asks brightly, and without waiting for her answer heads toward the dining room where silverware, napkins, a bottle of wine and two glasses wait for them.

She follows, gives him a small smile when he pulls out her chair, and watches as he rounds the table to sit across from her.

"So, Alexis is out too?"

He nods, digging his fork into the food, making sure he has both rice and stir-fry together. "Yeah, movies with some friends," he answers easily, the fork halfway to his mouth.

And then a stricken look flashes through his eyes and he sets the utensil back on his plate, untouched.

"Kate, I didn't-" He stutters to a stop.

She cocks her head to one side. "Didn't what?"

His hands lift in supplication. "I didn't set. . .I mean, I knew about mother's play, but I forgot. And I had no idea Alexis had plans tonight. I don't think she did either. Seemed like it was a last minute thing."

Her heart constricts. Is he really this worried about how she'll react to an unexpected dinner alone? Oh. Well, they're at his loft. And there's wine. And he stood so close and fed her, and okay, she can see why he would be concerned about what she'd think. But it's not necessary.

"Castle," she says firmly, sliding a hand across the table to touch his knuckles. "It's fine. It's good to get a chance to just - decompress with you. And hey, good food, good wine? I'm always up for that."

Her words earn her a relieved smile. "Good company too?" he wonders aloud.

She shrugs. "Eh, that? Not so much."

He narrows his eyes at her and purses his lips. "I was going to offer ice cream for dessert, but now. . ."

She laughs, and kicks him under the table. Gently. "You wouldn't dare withhold ice cream."

He leans forward in his chair and kicks back. Also gently. But his eyes flash with mischief and something more. "Well, it's not like I can withhold sex."

A frisson of shock mingled with heat shoots through her body.

"Because, well..." he trails off, suddenly seeming to reconsider wherever he might have been headed with that particular train of thought.

He blushes - actually blushes - and to hide her amusement, she lifts her glass to her lips and takes a long sip while he recovers.

"I'm sorry Alexis had plans," she says after a moment, going back to their earlier subject for his sake. "I know you said you hadn't gotten to spend much time with her lately between her internship and our cases."

He nods. "Yeah, you'd think we'd cross paths more, considering. But she's staying busy, doing things that interest her."

The detective smiles and takes a bite of her own food. It really is delicious. "And I'm sure she's trying to spend as much time as possible with friends too," she says after she swallows. "Before everyone goes off to college, I mean."

He looks down at his plate, and when he looks back up, his eyes are clouded again like they were earlier. "Yeah, there's that too. I'm glad she has good friends though. She'll miss them."

She's not sure what's causing the haze. Probably the thought of his daughter leaving home. "But with the internet and video chats and texts, I'm sure she'll be able to keep up with everyone, no matter where she goes." With him, she really means. With the man who loves his daughter more than anyone else in the world.

She watches as her partner shakes off whatever's bothering him and turns his attention back to his dinner companion.

"Speaking of high school friends," he says cheekily, that familiar spark returning to his gaze. "I never did find out why Madison called you the biggest scofflaw at Stuyvesant. Care to share?"

Kate feels herself flushing. Those were. . .interesting days. She'll tell him. He'll get it out of her eventually. But that doesn't mean she won't make him work for it.

"Not particularly, no."


	4. Chapter 4

A co-authored story by **chezchuckles** and **International08**.

* * *

><p>"Okay," she growls, waving her glass of wine at him. "Enough. What about you? You haven't kept up with your high school friends either."<p>

He shrugs. He liked talking about her high school friends more than his own. "You know what happened with my high school friends. Maybe it's best I didn't."

She stills, regarding him for a moment, then sips her wine, her eyes watching him over the rim of her glass.

He didn't mean to bring the party down. Castle mops the sauce from his plate with a slice of bread, hesitates over spilling his guts.

She clears her throat, leans forward and crosses her arms on the table as she nudges her plate away. Empty, licked clean, he's glad to note. So far, she's liked everything he's cooked for her. They'll make it to s'morelettes one of these days.

"I showed you mine," she says, her voice low, throaty, dripping with sex.

He raises an eyebrow at her underhanded tactic, but she just smirks at him. Uh-huh, she knows exactly what she's doing.

"One of the guys from the high school lit mag - Jason - sent me a really nice letter through my publisher. After the first book sold so well."

"Oh," she murmurs, and some of that bedroom voice disappears. Too bad.

"Yeah, it was really nice of him. I wrote him back, thanked him for it, said we should meet up and talk about old times."

"And did you?" she asks, tilting her head, her eyebrows knitting together.

He nods, gives her a self-deprecating smile. "Mistake. I was an ass. Though he was too polite to tell me. Looking back, that was probably the beginning of a series of stupid and immature behaviors. I think the worst part was when I handed him a signed photo."

He expects a joke, a wry comment and a roll of her eyes, but she doesn't do that. "The magnification of your inner child," she says, and she's studying him now as if she can take him apart and figure out how he works.

"Yes, that. Also . . . Beckett, people stop saying no to you. When you have a lot of money. They stop making you work for it. So you get lazy. And selfish. And really, really stupid."

Her finger traces the base of her wine glass.. "Is this what led to naked police horse stealing?"

He grins, feels a sharp sting of memory - not for the event itself, which is hazy and made indistinct by inebriation - but for the conversation she first had with him about it. The disgust and desire in her eyes across the interrogation room table.

Really, their first date.

"It is. And I'd still be stuck there, making an ass of myself, if you hadn't told me no."

She lifts an eyebrow.

"Repeatedly told me no. Ordered me around like I'm not a millionaire, snapped at me like I'm not a famous author, in general busted my ass so that I wouldn't be an ass. I appreciate it, Beckett."

"Did you just admit that I make you a better person, Castle?" She's smirking at him, clearly pleased, and he doesn't even consider it a win for her, a loss for him, because it's just true.

She does.

"Yeah. I did."

Kate sits back, blinks as she averts her eyes.

Too much, then. Too serious. They don't talk like this, do they?

She gathers her plate and stands up from the table; he sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He's surprised when, instead of disappearing into the kitchen, she pauses and collects his plate as well, nudging him in the shoulder with her elbow.

He watches her for a moment, stunned, and then gets up to follow.

* * *

><p>All kinds of indecent thoughts are running through her head after that.<p>

She wants to stop telling him no.

Because the sensibility behind his statement, the truth of it, it touches her; it gets to her. A broken-hearted _I_ _love_ _you_ in a cemetery as she bleeds to death below him doesn't do it quite like _You_ _make_ _me_ _a_ _better_ _man_ does it when she's a conscious, active participant in the exchange.

There's nothing standing in the way, is there? She keeps him waiting, but only because she honestly didn't think he could survive her, that _they_ could survive her. But he's man enough to handle her issues; she's made him man enough.

Kate rinses off their plates, loads them in the dishwasher, then turns to find him in the kitchen, elbows on the bar, hands clasped, watching her.

She knows him, this man, knows what it takes, where she can go, how deep his loyalty runs. She knows him, and she knows nothing about him. Cryptic answers to her more meaningful questions about his childhood, sarcastic and teasing remarks about his mother that she almost can't believe.

Time to start knowing him, time to start sharing this - whatever it is and wherever it leads them - because she's tired of being not enough and too much.

"When you were a kid, what was your favorite place in all of New York?" she asks suddenly, thumb playing with the finger of her other hand, taking a deep breath. She's starting small, okay? Give her a break.

Castle watches her a second, pondering, then smiles. "What was yours?"

She hesitates, opens her mouth, and finds herself answering at the same time he does.

"Public library."

Kate grins at him, feels the heat of connection between them. She realizes she's stepped closer to him, propped her own elbows on the counter as well. His fingers uncurl, touch hers, tugging a little.

"Of course," she says softly.

"Of course," he echoes. "You read."

"And don't you forget it," she murmurs, hooking her fingers around his.

"How could I?"

Naked and uncovered, his adoration pours through his gaze, and she doesn't mind. She can handle it. She can handle him; he's made her into the kind of woman who can handle him.

Handle them.

"Let me take you there," he says suddenly.

She smiles, shakes her head. "Castle-"

He closes his eyes, a brief flicker, only a second, the rejection etched into the lines of his face, but she realizes it's because she ruined the moment, she denied it, denied them, even though she didn't mean to. It's habit.

And then he opens his eyes and she's not even sure she actually saw it, his disappointment, his searing hopelessness, not even sure it was there, except even with the excitement galloping across his face like wild horses, he still has a veil between him and her, an inner sanctum that he's closed off. For his own protection.

"Come on, let me take you. It'll be fun. A midnight trip to the library. I know you wanted to do it when you were a kid."

She did, actually. And she doesn't want him closed off, doesn't want him to have to guard himself against being hurt by her. Not anymore. Not when they've made it this far, not when they just make each other better.

"I always wanted to go in my pajamas," she says suddenly, reaching out and wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "I wanted to have a slumber party in the stacks upstairs."

His grin is so wide and grateful and pleased, he's so very pleased with her, that she feels an answering smile start in her own mouth, spread like wildfire so that she can't help the childlike anticipation that comes over her.

"You wanna change into something more comfortable, Beckett, don't let me stop you," he says, runs a finger down the back of her hand, circling the bone at her wrist.

"I didn't bring anything to change into," she shoots back, delicious heat cramping her belly, tingling her hip flexors.

"Don't let that stop you either."

"Quit while you're ahead," she warns him, her voice quiet but she knows her eyes are invitations.

"Then come with me," he says finally, and she's not sure if he says it in all innocence, or if he intends the erotic image that burns to life behind her eyelids.

All she knows is that she had to close her eyes to maintain her equilibrium, and now he's tugging on her hand and pulling her towards the door.

"I'm coming," she says, and she's appalled at the breathlessness in her voice.

* * *

><p>"This isn't going to be like that movie is it?" she asks as he pulls her through the door.<p>

His hand firmly on her elbow to keep her from straying too far away, he glances down at the detective.

"What movie?"

"'Night at the Museum.'"

He laughs, the sound of his happiness echoing through the cavernous foyer.

"Are you scared of the books coming to life and chasing you, Detective?" he teases.

"Hm, you should know better. I like books." She gives him a look from the corner of her eye, a little smile.

"Ooh, were you one of those kids with fifteen books checked out at a time and all of them overdue? No wonder you're afraid the books will come to life."

She elbows him in the side. "Actually, the limit per card is 23. Or at least, that's what they told me when I was a kid. But no. I'm more worried about the lions outside. After the tiger incident?. . .Let's just say, I'm not a fan of cats."

He catches another smile, this one wide and unguarded, one she rarely lets him see. It's similar to the one she gave him after he disarmed the bomb last year, but without the added adrenaline that made her eyes a little shiny, her laugh a little hysterical. Smile minus last-ditch effort to avoid imminent death equals a strange tightness in his chest.

"I don't think you need to worry," he assures her. "That would require some magic. You don't believe in magic."

She shrugs, and he wonders what exactly that little bit of body language might mean. As they pass the front desk, he nods at the guard on duty, who returns the gesture and holds up a book in response. It's _Heat Rises_, and the man is at least halfway through the novel.

"Thus the special privileges," Castle whispers to his partner, the synchronized tattoo of their footsteps on the marble floor resounding in the otherwise silent room.

She shakes her head. "They really don't mind if you're here after hours?"

He grins and nudges her shoulder with his. "I do book readings and special events for the library on a regular basis, I'm one of their Leadership Donors, and they'll be getting be getting a considerable amount from my estate one day - hopefully many, many years from now. They don't mind if I come in to do some research on a rare evening."

She hums at his side, a small smile playing across her features.

"Research," she says softly. "Is that what we're doing here?"

He shrugs, cocks his head. "I'm here with my muse, am I not?"

* * *

><p>He leads her through a series of corridors, past the library shop until they reach a door marked with a jagged upward sloping line.<p>

"We'll have to take the stairs," he says, voice hesitant. "Is that okay?"

She nods her assent, follows him in. As if she would turn him down. He takes the first step up and turns back to her, his hand extended, perhaps unconsciously.

"It's only two flights," he promises. "Come on."

The little boy excitement on his face has her slipping her hand into his, warm palm to warm palm, and he jolts a little, as if he hadn't even realized that he'd reached for her, as if his hand by pure instinct decided he needed her closer.

"Just in case," she offers when their eyes meet as she steps up next to him. "This way, if the books do come to life, we won't lose each other in the mad dash to get out of here."

He glances down at their joined hands and back up at her, stumbling over the words when he speaks. "Right. Yeah. You're right. Just in case."

As they ascend slowly, she remembers the first time she came to the library with her mother, can't help now opening her mouth in the hush and the solitude to share it with him. "My first time?" - and yes she knows how that sounds, intended it to sound that way - "My mom came here with me, looking for a book called _Deviance_ _and_ _Liberty_. It was about social problems and public policy. She dumped me in the children's section while she did her research; it was one of the best days of my life. All these books. I think I was five or six."

"I'm impressed you remember the name of that book. Five or six?"

"I found the book in her office, after she was gone," she tells him, but for once, there's no stab of hurt at the thought of not having her mother, just the pleasure of sharing her with Castle. "She had never returned it. I still have it actually."

He shakes his head, lips pursed in teasing disapproval. "I'm sure one poor law student after another has been trying to check out that book for years, only to find it missing."

She laughs, listens to the ringing of her joy in the stairwell. "I'm sure they replaced it long ago when it came up missing in inventory, Castle."

"Always so practical," he murmurs, and even though he's smiling, there's something in his phrase that relates back to her not believing in magic, something sad.

But then he seems to shake it off and drags at her hand, pulling her up the stairs a faster pace. "I came here a lot. All the time, actually."

"You've told me," she says softly, squeezing his hand. He pauses and looks back at her, curious and hesitant at the same time. She doesn't know how to reach out past that, to break down his wall as well as her own. But she's got to try. "I was here a lot too. As a kid. I bet we were here at the same time."

His breath catches; he pauses on the landing to look at her, and she's so glad she mentioned it. In that way, like it's possible they've met before.

"One time, when I was twenty or so, I spent all day holed up here in a research room."

She stays with him on the landing, can sense this is going somewhere.

"I was writing my first book. I had all these huge anatomy textbooks and police procedure manuals, and just . . . can I say that following you around is infinitely more appealing than research?" He laughs but that's not it either, is it? Not the point.

She smiles back at him in encouragement and he continues.

"I came out of my little room, probably walking too fast, head up my own ass. I was going back for a couple more books, when I practically trampled this girl."

Kate feels the smile slip from her face as she realizes where this going. _Oh, Castle_.

"I don't . . . she was probably twelve, dark hair, dark eyes. She was wandering the stacks with her nose in a book. I don't remember the title, but I know I had to catch her book as I knocked it out of her hands."

Her heart pounds, but she can't interrupt, can't make him stop the story. His eyes are bright, too tender.

"I – I told her she should be reading Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys instead of whatever it was she had. She didn't seem too happy to take orders from me, but she followed me back to the young adult section, and I pulled all kinds of books off the shelves for her to read."

"Presumptuous of you," Kate murmurs, glances away from him. She can't stand the glisten of hope, of magic in his eyes.

"It was. I was twenty and thought I knew everything. But she took my advice. I remember that. I saw her later that day at one of the research tables, back upstairs, reading Nancy Drew, a stack of them next to her."

"What do you want me to say?" she murmurs at him, passing her hand over her eyes. "That I remember that?"

"Kate…" He sighs, and when she lifts her gaze to his, the melancholy has resettled into the lines of his face. It makes him look so much older like this, distinguished and handsome still, but not the playboy she took in for questioning one night.

She tugs on his hand, pulls him up the final few steps. "So what if it's not fate, Castle? We're here now, aren't we?"


	5. Chapter 5

A co-authored story by **chezchuckles** and **International08**.

* * *

><p>The door from the landing leads to a narrow hall, another door at the end. He turns, backs into the wood so he can see her face, and then realizes it's probably silly of him.<p>

Surely she's been in this room before tonight. And she's not the twelve year old girl he remembers running into outside the research room.

Still. He wants to watch her rediscover it. He wants to share that magic with her somehow. The magic of books, words, new places, of never being alone again, not here.

Their hands remain linked as he presses his back against the door's push bar; it swings inward. Her eyes light as the room comes into view, and even with his back to it he knows how it must look – dim, a little mysterious, the tall stone walls lined with books, low light reflecting off an ornate ceiling.

It – it actually reminds him of a castle. Which may have something to do with why he chose the name, or it may just be his longing for chivalry, for the days of romantic honor.

Of course, there are computers here now, have been for quite some time, but he remembers how it was when he was younger and escaping, a lonely seat at one of the tables with a stack of books, hunched over them for hours as he lost himself in the classics.

"It seems bigger," she says softly, awe in her voice. "Which is strange, because usually the places that seemed huge when you were a kid are so much smaller as an adult."

He nods and follows her into the room.

"I think it's the lack of lighting," he says. "Makes it harder to see the edges of the room, so it looks like the shelves might go on forever."

"Look at you, being practical," she teases him, echoing his earlier words.

So maybe the magic is shared, but it's grounded in something else. Something real. He likes that better, now that he thinks about it. Likes that their foundation is solid, that it won't disappear in a puff of smoke and poorly timed three-little-magic-words.

Kate turns to face him, orienting herself around him. The semi-darkness of the huge room changes her. She's beautiful still, but it's not the vibrant beauty of a sunny day, nor even the sharp beauty that is cut out in the artificial light of the precinct.

This beauty is warm, haunting. His heart aches with it, with the sudden vision of other places that would paint her in this same golden light-

-in his office, tapping a finger against her chin as she peruses his bookshelves by the illumination from his desk lamp;

-in her apartment, slowly unbuttoning her shirt, bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes on him as the city lights strain through the finally closed shutters;

-in his room, slipping back into his bed, the flash of her knee, her hand at his shoulder, silhouetted by the nightlight that spills in from the bathroom.

"I haven't been here in ages," she whispers, and squeezes his hand tightly. "I forgot how much I love this place. Thanks for making me come."

He squeezes back, filled up with the knowledge that she's touching him, that she's pleased with him. That she wants to be here with him.

Filled up with the golden light of maybe, of someday in the future.

He wants to kiss her. He wants to have her, that magic with her.

She smiles at him, dark eyes made darker, richer, alive in a way he keeps getting glimpses of, like promises.

"Show me around."

* * *

><p>She's been in this room, many times. She has plenty of her own memories from early childhood until her first year of college – hours living in a boxcar with the Aldens, days battling the White Witch with the Pevensies, weeks balancing faith and doubt with the Brothers Karamazov.<p>

And yes, there'd been Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, but no. No, never a young man rushing through the stacks and knocking her over, leading her to the stories she loved the most.

But she hasn't spent much time here since her mother's murder. School and later the academy and her job stole away the hours she might have otherwise used to linger among the stacks.

She reads at home, relaxing in the bath with the latest best seller or curling up in bed with a familiar story. Richard Castle's books fall into both categories. She wonders if the man himself would fit so neatly into either place.

Her heart stumbles.

Her bath, her bed.

Kate's fingers twitch in his.

There's something about the library – the blend of solitude and history, somehow being both alone and being in the midst of so many others. And it's something she's grateful to share with him. Just because they are alone doesn't make them lonely, doesn't mean there's no one who understands, who can reach out and share the burden.

"What was your favorite section?" she asks on impulse, longing to prolong the moment.

Castle shoots her a disbelieving grin. "Do you really have to ask?" He tugs on her arm to get her to follow.

They wind through desks and chairs and up stairs until they're standing in a corner, just down from Agatha Christie, a few shelves over from Dashiell Hammett, surrounded by Poe and Doyle.

"This is where I first discovered my love for mystery," he whispers, the semi-darkness perhaps demanding his unusual quiet. "Here in the stacks. _Murders_ _in_ _the_ _Rue_ _Morgue_. _A_ _Study_ _in_ _Scarlet_. These were my first real friends."

He pauses, and she watches the play of shadows across his handsome face.

"_In_ _a_ _Hail_ _of_ _Bullets_ may have been primarily written at the Old Haunt, but I did most of the research here. So this is sort of the birthplace of my first book too."

She smiles, lifts their hands to jab him in the stomach with one sharp knuckle.

"First place I arrested you too," she says on a laugh. "Well, not in this room, but here, in the library."

He grins back at her.

"Mm. Felony theft and obstruction of justice, if I remember correctly."

"So it is fate, Castle." She stares back at him, letting him see the smile on her face, hoping he understands as she does just how far they've come since those early days. How much it's meant, doing this together.

"Fate," he echoes, and she realizes that maybe her statement held more in it that she meant to give away.

Too late. It's been too late.

"How about another first?" she asks, but before he has a chance to answer, she's crowding him into the stacks, her chest pressing against his.

"Kate?" he asks breathlessly. "What are you doing?"

She chuckles, hears the wickedness in the sound, and under that, the breathlessness.

"We're surrounded by mysteries novels and you're a mystery writer – you can solve this one on your own."

And then her lips meet his, warm and soft and willing. Eager, both of them. She slants her mouth, opens to him, sharing his breath, feels his arms coming around her, holding her up even as she leans against his body.

She breaks away, tilting her forehead against his chin. "I've wanted to do that all evening."

She feels him smiling against her skin, his mouth brushing at her hairline.

"Me too. For a lot longer than just this evening."

Kate leans back, but lifts her free hand to his cheek and strokes the skin rough with the accumulation of a day's stubble.

"Castle," she says softly, glancing down to his lips before her eyes catch his once more. A rush of heat flares in her chest. "There's no need to be alone."

His hand rises to trap hers at his cheek.

"Nevermore?" he asks, a small smirk crinkling his eyes.

She laughs. It's amazing that the spell isn't broken, but it's not. She still feels it build in her, twining around them both, holding them there. She can't catch her breath no matter how deeply she inhales.

Of course, it might have something to do with how his fingertips are trailing up and down her spine.

"While I appreciate the literary reference, especially considering your name and our present location, I'd prefer you didn't end up like Poe. And I certainly have no desire to be Lenore."

His smirk widens. "Perhaps the Grimm Brothers then: for a long time they lived happily and satisfied."

She shakes her head. "It's a nice sentiment, but a little cliché, don't you think? And not very practical."

He nods his assent, and his eyes flit away from her face, looking for inspiration perhaps.

No, she thinks. She wants his eyes on her.

Kate pushes up on her toes to blaze her lips along his jaw and then across the strong cords of his neck, impatient, unwilling to wait for him to find the right words, unwilling to have his mind or his heart anywhere but here, with her.

She feels him surge forward, rolling them to press her backward until the sharp edges of books' spines dig into her shoulder blades. His mouth is on hers, his hips trapping her against the shelves, his body a permanent and towering wall around her.

The only wall around her.

When he leans back, chest heaving, his eyes flash heat and lust and love and devotion and hope. "So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us."

Kate blinks, lifts her hand to let the dark stubble at his neck scrape her fingertips. It's late. It's late and she just kissed him. Hard. And he's quoting what?

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

She finds her hand gripped in his, the fingers that had been traveling the contour of his jaw now laced with his own.

Something of her intelligence comes back to her, reasserting itself.

"Seems appropriate," she offers finally, pushing forward to get more of his body against hers. "Perfect, actually, except for one thing."

He nuzzles her cheek, then presses his nose into the crease of her neck, warm puffs of air cascading across her skin.

"What's that?" he asks, like he can speak words straight into her hot blood.

She anchors him to her with a hand at his neck. She needs him close. Needs him with her. There's more to share, more than just childhood stories and the magic of words. Still so much unspoken.

"Peace in our hearts is all well and good," she murmurs. "But the things I want to do to you are definitely not for children."

* * *

><p>They stumble into the loft, Kate plastered against his side, mouth at his ear, her body warm and soft and altogether too tempting.<p>

She insisted on walking him to his door. And he wasn't about to say no to that offer, even if it did make him feel like a sixteen year old girl.

When she pinned him against the wall of the elevator, he invited her in for coffee.

Right. Coffee.

"Castle."

Her voice sounds breathless to his ears, but there's nothing in her tone of a dark alley or a moonlit hangar. No handcuffs or the necessity of sharing body heat. Just intimacy and want.

"Come home with me," she pleads. "I want. I want you all to myself tonight."

He doesn't share his daughter's text telling him she's spending the night at a friend's house, doesn't inform her that his mother still rarely comes home before morning after a play.

He knows they could stay here and not be interrupted.

But she's inviting him into her solitude. And that's never happened before.

"I'll show you my books," she offers.

He pulls away from her, smirking, waits until the fog lifts from her gaze. At which point she punches him in the arm.

"Books, Castle. I said books."

He slides his hand up her side, edging into previously - possibly still, if he's honest - forbidden territory, feels the way she shivers, the way she presses into his wide palm.

"Books?" he echoes.

She lists forward, closer, wedges a knee between his. One hand gripping his waist, branding him, she pushes herself into his chest.

"Chekhov," she husks, nose brushing the joint of jaw and neck. "Tolstoy and Nabokov. Pasternak."

His hand slips down, grazes the curve of her hip, catches under the outside knee to hitch her higher.

"A lot of Russian," he comments.

Her teeth scrape at his earlobe, at the tender skin just below. "Not too much rushing, I hope. Plenty of time."

He snickers, darkly delighted with her wordplay, with her wit.

"What else?" he inquires.

Dropping to his neck, she hums against his jugular, her mouth scalding and wet and perfect.

"British too," she tells him. "Orwell. Graham Greene and Golding and Lawrence."

"Hardy?"

She bucks into him roughly, and he knows it can't be anything but deliberate. "Indeed."

He tilts his forehead to her shoulder, groans, tries to keep himself in check.

"Any Americans?" he asks, feeling her fingers brush through his hair, her nails rasping at his scalp on their way to his ear.

"Heller, Lee, Ellroy," she recites, then pauses for a moment, takes a breath. "And Castle."

"Hmm?" he murmurs into her skin, paying a little too much attention now to her body against his, not enough to her words.

She gives a little laugh, and he lifts his mouth from her clavicle, catching on. "Oh. The entire Richard Castle collection?"

Her hand loosens its grip on his ear, drifts to his cheek instead, gentle.

"All of you."


End file.
